(no subject)
The man-shaped figure behind the door turned out to be, in fact, a man. He burst through with a happy grin upon his face, and then Morgan McMally saw his hat, and felt sick.
His hat was that of the species of bowlers, with it's supple rim and bountiful dome. But that is not what made Morgan feel sick. No, it was the color, a vibrant shade of yellow. It was a thick, awkward, obtrusive, completely unblemished sort of yellow, the kind you would see smattered on the floor if there was a cockroach under your shoe. It was vile, it was sour, it made Morgan's toes curl. It seemed to slander and abuse and kick him all over, and then part with a vulgar sheen.
He crumpled to the floor, his insides swimming. The Yellow Bowler stood in the doorway, cackling, having claimed another victim.
His hat was that of the species of bowlers, with it's supple rim and bountiful dome. But that is not what made Morgan feel sick. No, it was the color, a vibrant shade of yellow. It was a thick, awkward, obtrusive, completely unblemished sort of yellow, the kind you would see smattered on the floor if there was a cockroach under your shoe. It was vile, it was sour, it made Morgan's toes curl. It seemed to slander and abuse and kick him all over, and then part with a vulgar sheen.
He crumpled to the floor, his insides swimming. The Yellow Bowler stood in the doorway, cackling, having claimed another victim.